Page 155 of Relapse

The residents there eyed me with intrigue. For them, a newcomer must have been an exciting event.

I was too afraid to speak to anyone. Too afraid to come to terms with the familiarity that these people were like me. We were one and the same.

My roommate was quiet too. I liked that about him. He didn’t talk to me and I was glad for it. We shared the space in silence.

On the morning of day one, I was given a brochure. This was to help educate me on the 12-Step Program utilized in the facility. I threw up twice before breakfast. I had to decide when I was going to come to terms with my addiction. I wondered if they’d let me leave after twenty-two days if I never did.

Before I went to bed, they handed me a silver chip that said 24 hours on it. My first step to sobriety, beating desire. I tossed it in the trash on the way to my room.

Day two was even worse. I couldn’t finish my cup of coffee without half of it shaking to the floor. They had prescribed me medication to help with the withdrawal, but it wasn’t the best. I really wanted to leave this place. Damian called the facility but I refused to take his call.

I didn’t sleep on day three. I kept dreaming about getting high. Every time I woke up, I remembered where I was. I remembered how much I couldn’t stand myself. My roommate brought me a cold compress for the sweating. He didn’t say anything, just handed it to me before returning to his bed.

Group circles started happening on the night of day four. I didn’t want to tell them my name or that I was an addict. I spent most of my time staring at the floor when people shared their stories. I still listened. There were several stories that sounded similar to my own.

By the fifth day, the nausea had let up. The cravings still spoke to me in the passing hours of my day, whether I was in the library reading a book or trying to exercise in the recreation area. I got a phone call that day from my mom. I told her I was fine even though it was a lie.

On day six, I was angry. At the program. The counselors. My family. Myself. The facility workers brought me a bible. I shoved it into the drawer.

I was surprised to have made it to day seven. One whole week. The group circle had a little cheer for me at the evening discussion. I shared with them that this might have been the longest time I ever went without something: drink, vape, anything. My counselor said he was proud of me. It felt good to hear that for once in my life.

Day eight was themed. The topic was personal accountability. I hated this most of all.

Apparently, my self loathing was too obvious.

My counselor had to have a session with me. He asked me if I wanted to discuss any trauma or factors that may have led to my using. He promised the conversations were completely confidential. I didn’t know what came over me. For some reason, that reassurance broke through my defenses. There was something strangely cathartic about talking about the parts of my life I usually kept buried. Knowing my words would stay in that room made it easier.

I shared with him that I saw my mother raped in front of me when I was really young.

He looked at me differently after that. I could tell.

On day nine, I had a phone call with Delane.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

Just hearing her voice made me want to smile.

“Better than I thought I would be,” I admitted.

“That’s good.”

I cleared my throat awkwardly.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m okay,” she answered, a little too fast.

I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I let it go.

“Everyone misses you.”

A quiet laugh escaped me. “I doubt that.”

“It’s true.”

“Do you?”

The line went silent for a moment.